


Madness

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Torture, Jim wants into Sherlock's pants, M/M, Major non-canonical death, Sheriarty - Freeform, So much angst, this is the long and convoluted way he gets there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an ordinary - boring, even - case goes sour, Sherlock's whole world is reduced to a thin pine box. Who better to drag him out of his blues than our favourite consulting criminal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madness

“Hey Sherly.” He breezed into the lab, hands in his pockets.

Sherlock raised a brow, frozen over his petri dish. “James.”

“So formal! I think lovers should have pet names for each other.”

“Lovers?”

“Aren’t we? I mean, in terms of a mind fuck you won’t find better than me.”

Sherlock lowered his tweezers. “In that case, you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

 “Now now, you’ll make me blush!” Jim rocked on his heels, “But if you ever want to make our rendezvous a little more corporeal, just say the word, Sherly.”

“Why would I want that?” the detective looked genuinely puzzled.

“Use your head, Sherlock! Think of all the possibilities. The potential in those luscious limbs you’re wasting on poor Dr Watson.”

“There’s nothing going on between John and I.”

“Exactly. He wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

“And you would?”

“Ask Molly. I get my hands dirty sometimes.”

“No thanks.”

Jim strolled idly closer. “Come on now. Aren’t you just a teensy bit curious?”

Sherlock stared him down calmly. “No.”

“You should think about it, Sherly. We’re two different endings to the same story. You’re a me who can’t feel, and I’m a you who can’t stop being bored. Shame Mikey’s so unambitious; the three of us could have had great fun together.”

“I was rather under the impression you thought I _can_ feel.”

Jim rested his elbows on the bench. “Care, yes. Feel, not so much. You’re afraid of sensation, afraid you’ll relapse.”

“Wrong.”

“Sherly, you’re so infuriatingly dense sometimes. I don’t know if I want to fuck you senseless or squeeze your neck until your eyes pop. I think they’d both be beautiful.”

He raised his brows expectantly. “Did you come here for a reason or just to get into my pants?”

There was a tense moment of silence as the two geniuses watched each other for the tiniest break in composure. Then Jim slapped his hands against the counter and stood. “Consider it a standing offer, Sherly. Anytime you need to _feel_.”

He stalked out before the detective could respond, leaving Sherlock frowning at the door.

*****

The countess was tiny, her face deeply wrinkled and her hands bony against Chanel-covered knees, but she still had that majestic look that comes from being born into a sense of aristocratic duty. Her grey waves were perfectly curled and pinned back severely. John handed her a cup of tea and stood behind Sherlock’s chair with barely contained awe.

“Mr Holmes, you come with the highest recommendations, though I’m warned your methods are...unconventional. This matter is vital to me. Can I trust you will use the utmost discretion?”

The detective sat straighter in his seat. “Of course.”

“I recently acquired an item, a piece of Edwardian jewellery that I had privately evaluated.”

“And it turned out to be fake?” John asked.

She sniffed at him. “No. It was real enough, but the legitimacy of its auction was called into question by my assessor, who recognised it as part of a large collection that belongs to Margaret Grenville.”

Sherlock put down his cup. “Has she reported it missing?”

“It is not, in fact, missing. She recently moved it from one of her estates to her townhouse, and every piece was accounted for.”

“Then hers is the fake?” Watson looked at his flatmate, “Someone switched the pieces and sold off the real one.”

“Most likely. The baroness didn’t say anything about the auction? No one mentioned to her or you that they recognised the piece?”

The countess shook her head. “I believe Margaret has no idea, and there is no reason for anyone to think she was not purposefully selling it. It’s only a small part of a much larger set and not of any great value, so I suppose it went mostly unnoticed.”

“You haven’t spoken to her about it?”

“And create a scandal? Goodness no! I want it cleaned up quietly, Mr Holmes. Find out how the switch was made and who was responsible, then get my money back and I will return the necklace to Baroness Grenville.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin for a moment. “Very well. I’ll need everything you can tell me about the piece and where it came from.”

 

Two days later they were in Henry Grenville's study, standing in front of the desk while he finished signing some papers. John looked around at the white trim and navy panelling scattered with very old family portraits, if the common nose was any indication. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Sorry, sorry, just about done.” Baron Henry threw them an apologetic smile.

He was a dark man of about forty, skin too tanned for London and suit quietly expensive. He pushed the last letter aside and clasped his hands on the desk.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well for a start you can return Countess Heathwood’s £19,000.”

“What?” he asked, still smiling but a little confused.

“The necklace from your wife’s set? Family heirloom, isn’t it? Recently sold at Sotheby’s for almost twenty grand and definitely not by Baroness Grenville. She only just had the set cleaned and relocated.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How long have you been a compulsive gambler, sir?” Sherlock snapped out tartly.

Henry’s face froze. “I think you gentlemen should leave.”

“Stealing her jewellery, what will the wife say? She has no idea the money for all this is technically hers.”

“Are you going to tell her?” he said glumly.

“I probably should, shouldn’t I? But Margaret is not my client, and my only interest here is for £19,000.”

Grenville grimaced and reached into his drawer, pulling out a check book and a gun. “Unfortunately Mr Holmes, I don’t have it.”

John raised his hands, cursing the gun lying under his pillow at home. “Steady now. Let’s be reasonable. You’re not going to shoot us in your own house – people know we’re here.”

Grenville looked uncertain for a moment before smiling. “No, they don’t. That old bag Heathwood won’t want anyone thinking she was involved. Nobody knows the jewels are fake. I could kill you both and claim you broke in, and no one would contradict me.”

"You're smarter than that." the doctor said.

Sherlock scoffed. "He's really not."

Grenville aimed at Sherlock and fired just as John tackled the detective out of the way. The pair rolled onto the rug and Sherlock stood, whipping a lamp into the baron by its cord. The older man dropped the gun and Sherlock headbutted him as people came running into the study.

“What’s going on in here? Who are you? Henry?” Baroness Margaret demanded, crossing to where her husband lay slumped against the wall.

“Sherlock Holmes, the man your husband just tried to kill for exposing him. I think if you review your finances you’ll find proof of his considerable gambling debts and the regular theft of your jewellery he’s been selling off to cover them.”

“My what? All my jewellery is upstairs in the safe.” She protested, kneeling by the baron.

“Fakes. Ask Countess Heathwood, she’s got something of yours.”

The sour-faced brunette turned white, glaring at her husband. “Jacob, call the police.”

Sherlock didn’t waste time finding out if she was intending to have Henry arrested or him and John, just turned to the doctor. “Come on then, we have a client to inform...”

The ex-soldier was still face-down on the carpet where Sherlock had left him. If he hadn’t been so busy dealing with the Grenvilles he might have noticed sooner. The detective dropped to his knees and rolled John over. A small hole in his chest was pouring blood, the stain spreading over the rug as John groaned very softly.

“John! John, can you hear me? Get an ambulance now!”

Sherlock examined the wound but it was too messy; the bullet had hit an artery by the looks of things. John didn’t respond to his prodding and Sherlock ripped off his scarf, pressing it against the wound.

“How long?”

Margaret looked up from the phone. “Two minutes.”

“Too long!” he pressed down harder, “Don’t die, John, I’m too angry for you to die now. Stupid git, jumping in front of bullets I’m perfectly capable of avoiding by myself. Who asked you to babysit me, hey?”

His voice stuck in his throat as John went limp. There was a siren outside and footsteps, slamming doors, but all Sherlock could process was the cold skin of John’s cheek against his wrist and the slow seeping of blood onto the navy blue scarf.

*****

Sherlock looked up as Mycroft walked towards him. The hospital chairs were uncomfortable but he didn’t care. His brother’s face was impossible to read and that bothered him infinitely more. “Well?”

“You already know the answer.” Mycroft said in his version of kindness, but there was an air of caution there too.

He stared blankly at the cream wall. “Grenville?”

“He will be charged with murder, among other things.”

“I want to see him.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mycroft-”

“Sherlock, I will not let you do something you will only regret later.”

“I won’t regret it.” Sherlock shot him a dark look.

“We both will. I cannot allow you to attack a peer of the realm, Sherlock! This is already tragic enough without you ending up in jail.”

“He killed John!” Sherlock bellowed.

A few people looked and he dropped his head, breathing hard.

“And you know better than anyone how justice must be served. How John would have wanted it done.”

Sherlock stood abruptly and buttoned his coat. “Fine. May I see the body?”

“If you’d like. Should I stay?”

“Oh no need, Mycroft, you’ve been very comforting.” He started for the lifts.

“Sherlock, I’m putting Henry Grenville into protective custody so extensive even you can’t penetrate it. Don’t try getting to him.”

The brunette flicked his head and kept walking.

 

“Oh Sherlock! He was such a good boy.” Mrs Hudson wept.

“It’s a damn shame, mate.” Lestrade shook his head manfully.

“I liked him, he was nice. You can talk to me about it if you like.” Molly offered, her eyes big with concern.

But none of them, none of them really told Sherlock how well John had been admired until the sad nod Donovan gave him. Then he knew it was happening.

 

The stiff, lifeless thing that used to be John was buried a week later. It was the first time Sherlock had met any of John’s family but he kept his distance, letting Mrs Hudson give his condolences for him. He observed Harry’s imminent downward spiral and Mrs Watson’s stress lines, saw the hatred in Mr Watson’s grimace when the priest mentioned cause of death. Sherlock supposed there was a cruel irony in that, a soldier shot defending his country who survived only to be gunned down by a noble countryman. Some ruling class. The point was, he wasn’t interested in anything to do with the Watsons or the guilt he felt whenever he looked at them, as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. His focus was on Grenville.

Sherlock pulled out every contact, every favour owed, every sneaky back door into Mycroft’s files and office and house and there was no trace of the man. Sherlock had a fairly good mental map of government safe houses but none of them held the missing baron. When he wasn’t avoiding the relatives boxing up John’s things at Baker Street, he was looking for new ways to hack into traffic cams and Mycroft’s expense reports.

But after a few weeks Sherlock was running out of ideas. It was one thing to hide Irene Adler when Mycroft had no reason to suspect his involvement; finding someone his brother was intentionally keeping from him was almost impossible. No one knew better what he was capable of and Mycroft had almost unlimited resources to outmanoeuvre him. The emotions Sherlock had been holding at bay through activity slowly started to creep up, until he shut himself in his room and refused to come out.

*****

He didn’t take cases. He didn’t see anyone. Normally Sherlock would have been bored but now he just drifted, lost in some intangible dream of revenge and a swirling, numbing grief that slowed his thoughts. John was gone. Really gone, the funny, good little man who always tried to help people, even Sherlock, though he never deserved it. He’d died saving the detective and there was nothing Sherlock could do to make it right. He couldn’t even get his hands on the killer. He was useless – worse than useless. He was selfish.

Sherlock was lying about one afternoon in just his sheet, staring out the bedroom window at nothing. There was a tread on the stairs; probably Mycroft come to bother him again about seeing a therapist, or maybe Mrs Hudson making one of her futile attempts to get him up. The footsteps were careful and soft as they came through the kitchen – Lestrade then. Sherlock’s bedroom door opened but he ignored it.

“Under different circumstances the sight of you naked in bed would make my day.”

The voice stirred something; some primal part not buried under the weight of John made his head snap round. Moriarty lounged in the door watching him and licking his lips.

“What do you want?”

“If I said I was here to kill you, would you care?”

“Not particularly.”

“That’s the problem, Sherly. You’re no fun anymore! You just mope about missing your pet. I came to cheer you up.”

“Really? Did you think you’d succeed where everyone else failed?”

“I know I will. Because I have the proper incentive.”

“If it’s sex, try again.”

Jim laughed. “Oh, it’s not sex – not yet. It’s much better than that.”

Sherlock was interested despite himself. He sat up, clutching the sheet to his chest. “What then? Some new game or puzzle? I’m not really in the mood.”

“Oh I know. I think I understand better than anybody what you want right now,” he took a step towards the bed and leaned down until his mouth was next to Sherlock’s ear, “Henry Grenville.”

The detective took a shuddering breath. “I can’t get to him.”

“But I can.”

“How?”

Jim wagged a finger and tutted. “Underestimating me, Sherlock?”

The brunette grabbed Jim’s lapels, searching his eyes frantically. “Do you know where he is or not?”

“I do. And I know where he’ll be in twenty minutes. Would you like see him?”

Sherlock growled, but his eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this? What do you get out of it?”

“What do you think, Sherly? I get my best playmate back. I get one over Mycroft. I get some vicarious vengeance jollies. Aren’t those good enough reasons?”

“You don’t want anything else?” Sherlock pressed, “Sex, or, or favours, or amnesty?”

“Nothing, Sherly,” Jim smiled, “Nothing but you back to normal.”

Sherlock considered him for a moment before loosening his grip on Jim’s jacket.

“Excellent. Shall we get going? I’ll wait in the living room while you put on something more discreet.”

He wandered out and shut the door behind him, leaving Sherlock with a wild buzzing on his tongue. This was it. This was his moment. He jumped out of bed and grabbed a dark shirt and trousers, forgetting the jacket as he threw his coat on and ran into the other room, hair still tangled and misshapen.

“Eager! My car’s downstairs.”

Jim hurried down the steps to the white sedan and slid in, waving Sherlock along. The detective didn’t even take a moment to weigh up whether this was a trap or not. If he was being taken to Grenville, good. If Jim wanted to kill him instead, well like he’d said it didn’t really matter at this point.

 

They drove for about fifteen minutes, pulling up outside a row of white-pillared townhouses. Sherlock followed Jim into the burnished bronze and mahogany lobby, but instead of heading down to the basement like he expected, they took the lift to the third floor.

“No secret underground torture chamber?”

Jim sniffed. “Really, Sherlock. Do I seem so passé to you?”

The doors opened on a dull, mostly unfurnished studio apartment. One half had a small kitchenette, a couch, a dining table with no chairs. The other side was cut off by a curious glass wall with a variety of different frames and tables, standing cupboards, restraints and stacks of fabric on the other side. The curtains were open, letting in the summer sun and a view of the street below but no sound or breeze.

“Very nice.” Sherlock nodded.

“You’ll find everything you need in the cabinets, I think, and I can always send out if you’ve got some specific requests. The kitchen’s stocked too. Can I get you anything?” Jim stripped off his jacket, throwing it over the arm of the couch as he sank onto the cushions.

“No. When is the guest of honour getting here?”

“You are impatient today! Three minutes. Maybe you’d like to get settled.”

Sherlock pushed open the door and stepped through. As it clicked shut behind him all sound disappeared.

“Very advanced.” He almost whistled.

He had ideas: he’d done little but think of what he might do to Henry if he ever found him. He knew what sort of things Jim was capable of and the contents of his cupboard did not disappoint. He started pulling things out of drawers and laying them on the counter. There was movement on the other side of the glass and the lift doors opened again, two men in black dragging in a blindfolded, gagged Henry Grenville. Jim opened the door, waving them through.

“What do you think of my present, Sherlock?”

“It’s just what I wanted.” He smiled sinisterly.

“Well have fun – nice selection, by the way – and I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

“You’re going to watch?” the detective raised a brow.

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Moriarty leaned down next to Grenville and poked him in the ribs, “Because nobody fucks with Sherlock Holmes unless it’s me.”

He swept out, his men looking at Sherlock expectantly.

“On the table, please.”

They hauled the struggling nobleman onto the flat surface and chained his hands and feet, stepping back.

“Thank you, I think I can take it from here.”

The kidnappers left, shutting the door, and once again it was beautifully silent except for the slight whimpering of Grenville. Sherlock took his time rolling up his sleeves. He regarded the man. The baron was in a standard white jumpsuit with a number over his chest. He looked the same as before, maybe a bit sleep-deprived judging from the puffiness of his face. Faced with him now Sherlock’s anger bubbled to the surface, rolling over him. He felt that same calm, efficient rage he had when faced with the CIA agent at Baker Street. Sherlock tugged the blindfold off and the man glared up at him.

“Hello Henry. I’ve been looking for you.”

*****

Sherlock wiped an arm over his brow. It came away red and he dropped his knife with a sigh of disgust. He looked up and saw Jim gazing at him from the couch agog with excitement, feet on the cushions. Sherlock made his way around the mess on the floor and knocked on the wall, smudging it red under his knuckles.

Jim stood and opened the door for him. “Would you consider working for me? I could use a man with your talents.”

“I think that was more imagination than talent. A one-show-only sort of deal.”

Jim bit his lip. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed watching you lose that cold reserve and let the animal out. You were like da Vinci with a meat hammer.”

Sherlock looked around for a sink and held his hands up. “I should wash this off.”

“Leave it – looks good on you.”

Sherlock looked him over wryly. “You wanted to watch me abandon myself. You wanted me to destroy him so I’d be more like you.”

“You already are like me, Sherly, you just won’t admit it.”

He scoffed. “I think now would be the moment for a celebratory drink, don’t you?”

Jim went off to the kitchenette to oblige and Sherlock flopped back on the couch. He looked over at the mangled mess that used to be Grenville and shuddered. Did he really do that?

As he stared, his anger receded. John was avenged and it felt good. There was no escape for Henry, he’d paid in full. But as Sherlock felt the wrath leaving him, there was nothing hot to temper the cold paralysis of his grief. John was gone. Killing Henry didn’t change that, it just took away his one distraction.

Jim turned around with two glasses and a small bottle of gin to find Sherlock resting his head back on the couch, tears streaming silently down gaunt cheeks. “Sherly?”

“It doesn’t fix anything. I knew that it wouldn’t, I just wanted to pretend for a moment Grenville was the most important thing.”

“Lost loved ones aren’t really my area, Sherlock.” He sounded almost sorry.

“Of course. My apologies. I’ll clean up and get out of your way.”

Sherlock stood and Jim placed a hand in the middle of his chest, blocking his way. “This is the consequence of our lifestyle, Sherly. Of being us, really. Forever condemned to stand alone.”

Sherlock sniffed again and traced a hand over the fingers Jim had pressed against him. There was an emptiness inside him, a space he’d made for John – a space the soldier had forcibly carved out. And now it was left open and raw and he didn’t know how to stitch it up again. “What if we aren’t meant to be alone?”

“Who else could keep up with us?”

Sherlock sniffed again, fingers moving up to Jim’s elbow. “I think I’ll call you Jamie.”

“Jamie?”

“Lovers should have nicknames, isn’t that what you said? And I want to feel.”

Jim stuck his tongue in his cheek. “Are you saying you accept my offer, Sherly?”

“I need something, anything that isn’t this. I need someone who understands how I think, someone just as fucked up. Will you help me, Jamie?”

Moriarty’s smile spread slowly. “It would be my pleasure, dear.”

 

Sherlock lunged like a runner waiting for the starting gun. He pressed his lips to Jim’s, bloodied hands on the genius’ neck. Jim shoved back and they fell, Sherlock dropping onto the couch and Jim quickly clambering into his lap. Hands reached out to grab him but Jim dodged them.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

“My very own Holmes to break in, all shiny and new. It must be Christmas.”

He kissed Sherlock and the brunette moaned. Jim inhaled sharply, blood rushing to his prick as he battered at Sherlock’s mouth, one hand curled in his tangled hair to steady him. Sherlock rubbed his groin against Jim and the criminal let him, knowing how badly he needed the contact. He kept up the kisses, running his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders. The detective crooned against his lips, hands wrapped around Jim’s back to hold him closer.

“Fuck me, Jamie.”

Hearing Sherlock Holmes say his name like that was enough to make Jim almost lose his mind, but his dick seemed to appreciate it. He reached between them and cupped his hand loosely around Sherlock’s crotch. The detective arched up into his hold with a whine but Jim just kissed him again as he tugged.

“Are you thinking, Sherlock?”

His voice was low, slinky like a serpent as he unbuttoned his pants and reached in. Sherlock clutched at Jim’s arse awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure that was his move. Jim’s fingers carefully closed around him and he hissed, twitching.

“Patience, darling. We’ll get there.”

Jim could feel the desperation in the way Sherlock’s thighs were moving subtly under his own, could almost smell it. If he didn’t want this to be over in about five seconds he was going to have to take action.

He slid backwards off Sherlock’s lap, dragging his trousers down as he went. Jim swooped in, forcefully spreading those creamy knees as he dragged his tongue over the lightly bobbing prick pointed straight at him. Sherlock gave a throaty cry and clenched his hands in the air for a second before raking his nails over the couch cushions, hips thrusting slightly towards Jim’s open mouth. The criminal closed his lips around the head and sucked, and the sensation tipped Sherlock’s already overworked nerves to breaking point. He came with an uncomfortable shudder, the sticky pearlescent drops spilling down from the corners of Jim’s mouth.

His head lolled back but Jim tutted. “We’re just starting, honey.”

He unbuckled his belt and popped his trousers open, dropping them as he disappeared into the kitchen cupboard and came back with a bottle of olive oil. Sherlock raised a tired brow. “Really?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, this place isn’t exactly the Ritz.”

Jim straddled him, carefully unbuttoning his shirt as Sherlock caught his breath. Moriarty peeled back the blood-spattered fabric and ran his hands over the cool flesh beneath. Sherlock flinched and he laughed softly.

“Ticklish?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He poked at Sherlock’s sides, laughing evilly. The detective squirmed for a minute before pushing the tormenting arms aside and tugging Jim flush to him, kissing him without hesitation. Jim cooed a little internally at the thought of Sherlock tasting himself on the other man’s lips.

“This is the benefit of fucking sensible people. They don’t have any silly inhibitions.”

Sherlock growled, attacking his neck. Normally Jim would have punched any lover who tried to mark him, but as he tipped his head back to give better access he could see the red splashes on the glass, the heaped remains of Sherlock’s playing on the table, and he’d never felt more like prey in the hands of a great predator.

“Ready, sweet?”

Sherlock nodded silently, hair brushing over Jim’s cheek as he yanked the tie off. Jim opened the oil and slathered it over Sherlock’s groin, no regard for the couch. The whole apartment was going to have to be swept clean of any sign they’d been there anyway. Maybe he’d just burn the whole place down – but then he couldn’t visit and...reminisce.

Jim slipped oily fingers between his legs and into his entrance, scissoring them quickly to open himself up a bit more. Sherlock was watching with a sort of limp curiosity, more scientific interest than active desire. Jim looked at the red-stained hands sitting patiently on his thighs and moaned. That seemed to surprise Sherlock, like he’d forgotten what they were doing. It only made Jim more determined to fuck every morose thought out of that head. He lifted himself and guided the tip of Sherlock’s prick slowly inside, breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against the taller man’s. It was tight and the oil wasn’t ideal, but the look on Sherlock’s face was worth it.

 

He’d never really imagined what sex was like, since he had no use for it, but if he’d taken a moment to think it over he wouldn’t have said this. Jim was all around him, clinging like a monkey, hot and tight with his face in Sherlock’s and his nails curled in the detective’s chest. It was messy, almost clumsy, but there was something consuming about it – as if the chaos made it better. He looked over Jim’s shoulder at the glass room and jerked away, unintentionally thrusting up. Jim gasped and Sherlock glanced up apologetically.

“I’m sorry-”

He sank all the way down quickly and Sherlock thought his eyes would just about fall out of his face at the pressure clamping down on him. Jim gave a satisfied sigh. “What a perfect afternoon.”

Sherlock frowned, about to say something, but then Jim started moving and the words wouldn’t come. Every thought he had (and possibly all the ones he’d had before) left his head and there was nothing but Jim, writhing and rubbing and rocking and mewling against his chest. There was friction; there was heat. There were cries and he might have been making some of them but there was nothing else except a desire Sherlock hadn’t realised he had. He wanted to be buried in Jim until they were almost sharing a body, he wanted to rut and grunt until they both ached from it, so he turned himself over to sensation.

Jim got about half a second’s warning from the fierce light in Sherlock’s eyes before he was flat on his back on the floor, Sherlock’s arms firmly hooked under his knees. The detective pounded him into the carpet, hips rolling stubbornly against Jim’s thighs as he drove himself home over and over, fast and frantic. The genius practically came just looking at him, but he held on and bucked up to meet the thrusts, whispering nonsense and laughing under his breath. Sherlock rested his head on Jim’s shoulder and gave a few last thrusts, exhaling in one long, rattling breath as he came. The criminal rubbed his own straining cock against the slim torso pressing down on him and scraped a hand through the matted curls under his chin. Sherlock cried out and Jim’s climax hit, spurting over the bottom half of his shirt.

Sherlock looked down at him and felt nothing but bliss, an irrational chemical high. “Thanks.”

“No problem, really. Very, very happy to help.”

Sherlock gently lifted himself off the Irishman, rolling onto his side tiredly. He looked over at Jim, who had his eyes closed. “We can’t go out in public looking like this.”

“I’ll have someone bring up some clothes.” He waved a dismissive hand.

Sherlock turned his gaze to the glass wall, trying hard not to focus on the other side. He could feel the good mood start to slip a little.

“Come on Sherly, let’s get you cleaned up and off home to build your alibi.”

“That’s it?”

Jim fixed those deep black pits on him. “For now, Sherlock.”

*****

“Sherlock Holmes! I have a few questions for you!”

He sighed and threw a leg over the arm of his chair as Mycroft stormed in, umbrella flailing. “What is it now?”

“You know damn well what the problem is! What have you done with Grenville?”

“Me? I’ve done nothing. You haven’t lost him, have you Mikey?” He tapped his cigarette against his saucer thoughtlessly.

“Henry Grenville was kidnapped from our safe house and you, dear brother, are my prime suspect.”

“I won’t lie, I did intend to snatch him but I never found the bastard. Your people were actually competent for once.”

“So if I searched this flat I wouldn’t find any trace of violence?”

“Go ahead.”

Sherlock took another slow drag and blew the smoke in Mycroft’s face. His brother seemed to be a bit more rational now the first wave of his anger was gone, and he straightened. He looked around at the disorganised state of the place, the smoking detective in his pyjamas and frowned. “When was the last time you took a case?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t taken any since he died?”

“I don’t suppose I have.”

Mycroft’s grimace softened a bit. “Sherly, perhaps you should go and stay with Mummy. She’ll help get you back to normal.”

“I do not want to stay with Mummy. I am a grown man!”

“Well, that’s debatable. Perhaps there’s something I can do?”

“Sounds like you have enough trouble. Losing a murder suspect whose lineage traces back two centuries? That won’t look very good on your service record.”

The elder Holmes smiled like he was in pain. “No. I’ll let you know if we find him.”

“I can’t wait.” Sherlock sneered.

His brother trotted back down the stairs, already assigning someone to watch Sherlock in case he tried to find Grenville now he was out in the open. He was a bit too late for that.

 

Sherlock couldn’t take cases even if he wanted to. His mind was a confusing blur of different feelings and he would never have been able to concentrate on the work. After so long repressing everything that wasn’t important, it was overwhelming to have it all wrenched out. Most of him, the majority, ached for John. The house was too quiet, too still, and not in that homely peaceful way it used to be. Sherlock felt like a museum piece, like the bats under glass on his wall. Without John there was no life to 221B.

Then there were the vivid daydreams of the things he’d done to Henry Grenville. They drifted into his mind every now and then, flashes of red and screaming and bone. They cheered him up for a moment but it never lasted. Some voice that sounded like his counsellor from rehab said he should feel bad about it, but he couldn’t quite make himself sorry.

The recollections of Jim came at night, when he was sleeping fretfully. Agile fingers swept over his hipbones and circled the dark patches under his eyes; sharp teeth nipped at his ears and lips. That was a sensation he wasn’t used to, and a side to Moriarty he’d never seen, and it raised a lot of questions about himself and his vulnerabilities. But he didn’t like to think about the whole thing when he was awake; it wasn’t going to happen again, so it didn’t matter how good those few minutes of fresh air had been.

 

The problem with too much thinking – too much conflicting thinking – was the exhaustion it caused. He slept a lot these days, and when he wasn’t dreaming about Jim he was chain smoking in front of crap TV and not looking at the empty armchair opposite. Mycroft or Mummy or someone was paying the rent and the bills, or at least he assumed so since no one had kicked him out or shut the power off. He only went out to get more tea and cigarettes and it was on one of these jaunts he found another conflicting thought.

It was a very grey, very crisply cold morning, one where there’s no wind but the chill cuts through your clothes anyway. Sherlock was taking a rambling sort of path back from the shops when he passed through an alley almost as skinny as him and nearly tripped over a man crouched against the wall.

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” He muttered, stepping around the mess of empty bottles he’d upset.

One small vial rolled away as he kicked it, and he stopped. Sherlock bent down and picked it up with a sense of almost detachment, like they weren’t really his fingers.

“Oi! That’s mine, that is!”

He turned the clear container in the light for a second before tossing it back and carrying on down the alley. By the time he’d put his few groceries away his fingers were shaking almost too badly to light his cigarette. Sherlock stood by the curtains, drawn to keep out the light and the noise, the smoke a welcome burn in his throat as he thought it over. It was the answer to his problems, really, the only sure-fire way to cut off his train of thought completely. There was no danger of losing his anchor in reality again, since Mycroft would probably stick him back in rehab or send him to Mummy for a lecture, but for a week or two at least he could have some blissful nothingness. He glanced over at John’s empty chair. There was nobody there to object.

 

Sherlock may not have used in recent years but his contacts (the ones Mycroft hadn’t threatened or arrested) were still good. He headed down the thin, twisting steps he knew well, the same yellow stains on the walls. The den was as he remembered, mattresses on the floor with ratty blankets and hollow-faced unconscious people, and the bald man in the black suit and shirt counting his money at the table.

“Well well, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen you.”

“I was busy.”

“Uh huh. The usual?”

“Please.”

He took a case from under his chair and unlocked it, opening it up to reveal rows of shiny metal and glass capsules. The dealer took out a fresh syringe and a capsule and glanced up.

“Having here?”

“Just the one, but I’ll take another five for home.”

“Alright then.”

He tipped them into a paper bag and handed it all to Sherlock, who tossed down a roll of bills nonchalantly.

“Good to see you again.”

He nodded and headed for a free space in the corner. Sherlock sat, taking off his shirt and scarf and rolling them up like a pillow. He unbuttoned his cuff and turned up the sleeve before readying the needle and piercing the lid of the vial. As he drew the slightly silvery liquid up he felt a rush of something soothing, a relief. He flicked it to remove the air with all the care he devoted to any of his experiments and pressed it to the pale skin of his elbow, punching through swiftly to the vein. He pressed the plunger without a thought, closing his eyes with a sigh as it emptied into his system.

“Good to see you again.” he mumbled.

*****

The dealer looked up as two men entered. They weren’t his usual customers, the shorter one very posh in a nice suit, his tall friend rough and clearly disdainful of the clientele sprawled over the floor. “Can I help you gents?”

“We’re looking for someone.” the blond barked, holding up a picture of the curly-haired brunette who liked his morphine cut with a little something extra.

“Sorry, can’t help you. Got to protect my customers’ privacy.”

The shorter man smiled, and there was nothing friendly about it. “He’s not a customer anymore, understand? You don’t sell to him again. Ever.”

“Who are you, his mother?”

He sighed and motioned at the blond, and in a smooth singular motion he drew a gun and shot the dealer in the head.

“Some people are so unhelpful,” Jim scowled, straightening his coat, “Right Sebastian, let’s find him.”

They stepped carefully around the different figures on the floor, glancing at their faces carelessly until Jim spotted a familiar waifish man. Sherlock was drooling as he stared at the ceiling, eyes totally unresponsive as Jim waved a hand by his face.

“Oh Sherly, you silly thing. Get him in the car.”

 

Sherlock was floating somewhere soft and painless. There was no thinking there, just warm lights and strange sounds like being underwater. He was vaguely aware of motion, but he just wanted to be still forever and ever and not move from his warm place. Something struck him in the face but he barely felt it; it was a feather stroke on his skin.

“Damn it, Sherlock! Wake up!”

He should understand those words, shouldn’t he? Sher-lock. Funny word. Wasn’t it something to do with him? He closed his eyes and said it over and over again in his head. Sher-lock. Sherl-ock. Funny word.

 

It was dark and he didn’t know where he was. Sherlock sat up slowly, limbs still weak from the drug.

“Good evening. Though evening is not quite the right word for four in the morning.”

He looked over at Jim sitting in the chair next to his head, legs and arms crossed unhappily. He rolled his head on the pillow but it wasn’t his bed. “Where are we?”

“My place. I wasn’t going to leave you in that shithole cellar.”

“Why?”

“Because you were about to go down a very bad path, Sherly. I won’t have you wasting yourself, remember? I gave you Grenville to get my playmate back and it didn’t work.”

“You underestimated my capacity for caring.” Sherlock chuckled, still feeling slightly loopy.

Jim slapped his arm and he winced.

“Hey!”

“Snap out of it! As hilarious as I’m sure this is for you, it’s very unhelpful to me.”

“Who asked you to interfere?”

“Better me than Mycroft, surely.”

He scoffed. “Mycroft? He’s a pushover.”

“Exactly. He’ll lock you away in the country somewhere until you appear to have it out of your system, and then when he sets you loose on town again you’ll be right back where you started. I’m going to help you, Sherlock.”

“How?”

“I’ll give you something to live for. I’m going to give you back that wonderful brain – no more moping, no more guilt, no more _ennui_.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How?”

“You’ll work with me.”

“So after that speech, you still mean to jail me.”

“I’m not trapping you, Sherly, I’m setting you free.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “And?”

“And if you start to feel the itch again, I’ll help with that too.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

“Really? I expected more of a fight.”

“What for?”

Jim clucked his tongue and stood. “I’ll let you sleep it off then. Come see me when you’re ready to start.”

He strode out and left Sherlock clawing to get back that happy dark place where no one else existed, but it was gone. Fine, so he’d work with Jim. _With_ , not for. Might be fun actually, having someone to bounce ideas off who can actually make decent suggestions. He rolled himself further into the blankets, suddenly tired, eyes slamming shut.

 

Sherlock spent a day exploring Moriarty’s flat. He had a lot of thick reference books, scale models, blueprints framed on the wall. He wandered into Jim’s office and the other man didn’t say anything, just regarded him for a second before going back to his juggling of laptop and phone. Sherlock looked over all of it, piecing together things he’d never guessed at with what he already knew.

Jim looked up. “Hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“You should eat something, dear, we can’t have you wasting away.”

Sherlock turned, suddenly bored now his analysis of the apartment was finished. “Anything I can help with?”

“Not this second.”

He sighed and sat on the edge of the desk, a dull irritation starting somewhere in the back of his skull. Jim raised a brow and considered him.

“Sherlyyyyy...”

“What?”

“Come here.” He pushed his chair back from the table.

Sherlock stepped around and Jim grabbed his wrist, tugging him forward until he fell into the smaller man’s lap. Moriarty wasted no time in getting his pants open, hand worming its way past Sherlock’s bony hips to his cock.

“Hold onto this, Sherly. Learn to feel. You can’t go backwards now, only forwards, only this.”

His fingers stroked lightly and Sherlock stifled a gasp, leaning into the touch as he braced himself on Jim’s shoulders. “Yes – yes. Please, Jamie.”

*****

They were in Boston for a change, overseeing an important conference of some high-up American lawmakers. Sherlock sat back in the stiff hotel armchair, sick of waiting while Jim tapped away on his laptop. The brunette shot a look at Moriarty strewn over the bed casually.

“I’m bored.”

“Daddy’s busy, Sherlock.”

“How much longer?”

“You should know, you planned it.”

Sherlock huffed and shifted, crossing his legs. “Twenty-three minutes.”

“Correct. Shall we watch it on the telly or leave it as a surprise?”

Sherlock ignored the question and stood, crossing to lean his forearm against the window frame. There was nothing interesting outside though. He could feel the old apathy wrapping itself around him again. “Jamie?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Do you need to be doing that right now?”

“I suppose not.” He closed the laptop, dragging himself to the edge of the mattress.

“Good.”

Sherlock crossed the room in two strides, throwing himself on Jim. They rocketed back against the mattress as he ground his crotch against the madman’s, fingers digging into the side of Jim’s face until the skin bulged out around them. Their clothes came off as if ripped from their bodies by some hurricane or explosion, Jim opening eagerly for Sherlock’s prying hands. It was wild and physical and exactly what Sherlock needed. He could feel Jim’s fingers in his bones, feel the heat of him everywhere. His mind was empty at last and as they rutted against each other, there was an enormous boom somewhere and distant screaming but he didn’t notice. Jim gasped.

“Your work, Sherly, is breathtaking.”

Sherlock just dug his knees harder into the bed. “Which work?”

“All of it.”

Another small piece slotted into the John-shaped hole in his heart, and it felt a little better.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah...this was just supposed to be a standard flirty Sheriarty piece and then the little plot pixies went HEY LET'S KILL JOHN! Not sure why, apologies


End file.
